Partying, partying, then going home and having a hang-over.
That was my life. Or at least, it used to be. I didn’t use to booze around in nightclubs on the weekends. I used to be happy. My family was torn apart.
We had a child. Her name was Anna. How did it all get this bad? Why so much booze? It’s never going to cover up the existential dread I have for myself. For everyone around me. Everyone I’ve cut off over the years.
I thought I was a loving husband. But, I guess my theory was incorrect when I found my wife, slumped over on the bed with a shotgun, and blood-staining the mattress we slept on for countless years.
Next to Janice, was my daughter. She was crying, looking over at her dead mother. Gone forever. I had just come home from work that evening. I got no phone call- no warning. No message. There was a note next to her corpse- but I couldn’t pull myself to read it. I dialed 911 and sobbed for hours. Days. Weeks. I never got over it.
The booze never worked. I’ve never been the same. No matter how long it takes for me to get over her, get a new partner. I can’t. She was my high-school sweetheart and my love forever.
I lost the only remainder of her, too. I lost custody of my child after my neighbor called CPS and reported that I was an alcoholic. If only I could show my love to my daughter.
If only I could love anyone as much as my wife.
I was lost in my thoughts while dancing in a nightclub on 12th Street. I dialed my best friend since middle school, Ivan.
He’s always been there for me, and I’ve always been there for him. Until the incident.
“Hey, Ivan. I’m kinda boozed up right now. At the nightclub. Can ya pick me up and drive me to my apartment?”
Ivan: “C’mon. You need to get your life off the tracks. It’s been so many years. I swear to god, Joe. I’ll come to get you, but promise to get your life back on track, alright?”
“Alright.”
He hung up and I waited in the parking lot. The full moon shined brightly, which only reminded me of my dead wife.
Around twenty minutes passed and he arrived. Wow, he’s got a new car. Brand new black Mercedes. He rolled down the windows and told me to get in.
He drove me to my terrible apartment. The building was in a high crime-rate neighborhood, but I’ve always kept the shotgun from my wife, so I’ll be fine.
Blood marks are still on the rim.
He walked into my apartment, and the stench of trash and the cockroaches dead on the floor almost made him walk out instantly. I almost felt Ashamed.
He left the apartment and went on with his night. I jumped onto the mattress and sighed. I started crying myself to sleep. My sob was interrupted by a pan falling. I shared a kitchen with another guy- and I assumed he was just cooking. Maybe I should ask him for some food.
I trudged over to the kitchen to find that; no one was in the kitchen. There was no pot on the ground, either.
I turned around and went back to my room when I heard a strange noise. Sounded like wind.
Hspspppss…
What the fuck?
The noises persisted throughout the night. I could not sleep for hours. However, at around 4 am, I was able to script something out of the undirected whispers.
Joe.. Joe.. it’s me.
I wasn’t sure if I was hearing stuff. I must have sobered up by now, right? Who was that? What was that? What’s going on?
My questions were answered when I looked behind the bed. A grotesque, bony figure shaped like a twizzler was standing at my feet.
I immediately recognized who it was. My long lost ex-lover. Janice.
She disappeared when I reached out to her. I was mortified. The whispers slowly started getting more intense. It was a cyclone of hissing. It all stopped, suddenly.
I’ll never forget what you did.
I was left in my own thoughts for hours. I haven’t been exactly truthful this entire time.
On August 3, 2017, I murdered my wife. I brutally murdered her, while my daughter watched. She looked on in horror as I wielded my shotgun and pulled the trigger. Surprisingly, no one was shocked from the loud noises.
My god, though. Did I pull off the murder well or did I pull it off well? I so, meticulously, photocopied each letter of my wife’s handwriting to print a suicide note next to her dead body. I used her fingerprints to put over the entire shotgun. I so, carefully, planned this out for years.
You may think I’m a psychopath. But, are psychos this intelligent? I think not.
I equipped my caliber shotgun and aimed it to my forehead.
Goodbye, everyone. I’ve made my mark.